Aftershocks
by Tonko
Summary: Resting is harder than you might think. Yaoi interaction. Companion-sequel to "The Risk."


Author's note: This is a companion/sequel to my story "The Risk." I think it can stand alone, but reading the other one will help clarify what's happening in this one.

Spoiler warning: Passing references to events from anime episode 114 (I haven't seen anything past that, so I don't know if my guesses about after are right).

Formatting warning: Some happened to the text when I uploaded to cause random pairs of words to run together. Hopefully I've caught all of those. I'm still new to this site's handling of my stuff.

As they left the hospital, Shikamaru could almost pass for normal, the mud caking his armour and uniform and the dried blood streaked across him notwithstanding. His expression was vaguely pained, as though he was bored with the general state of things, as though he only wanted to wander off and find a good place to nap. But Chouji could tell by the set of his jaw and the tiny twitches of his eyelids that Shikamaru was barely clinging to appearances. Chouji recognized this state, and as the worry from the hospital wait faded, concern for Shikamaru welled in its place. After the day's events, Chouji knew, Shikamaru's mind was speeding as he reflexively grappled with his roiling emotional state. Circles of logic justifying his plan, reconciling the near-fatality, drawing parallels, alternately vilifying and reassuring, working over the mission and its consequences and pulling Shikamaru deeper into fruitless loops of analysis.

Chouji let the arm he'd flung over Shikamaru's shoulders slide down, until he gripped Shikamaru's upper arm in a gentle restraint. "Shikamaru," he said, hunching down slightly to meet his friend's eyes.

Shikamaru met him halfway, looking up of his own accord, and Chouji saw the flicker of Shikamaru's overwrought thoughts, and then last threads of composure fell away and he sort of... wilted. His eyes closed, his shoulders drooped slightly, and he exhaled, slowly, in a long, quiet sigh. When he opened his eyes, tiredness was etched in every line of his face. "Chouji…" he said tightly, voice laced with fatigue and self-disgust, the tension that underlay his exhaustion pulling it all taut, pulling him taut, keeping him standing, as though Shikamaru hadn't relaxed his combat alertness since he and Neji had returned to Konoha, nearly twelve hours ago, with Naruto at death's door.

Both Shikamaru and Neji had remained at the hospital since their return from a grueling assigment, waiting, as Tsunade oversaw the surgery on their comrade. For the most part they were still and silent as statues, even as others joined their vigil.

Now the ordeal was over. Naruto lay under observation in intensive care, already recovering, his phenomenal healing working to restore him. But the leader who'd nearly lost him was here next to Chouji, physically and emotionally exhausted, yet with his mind still fully active, locked in mission mode, dragging out and ceaselessly evaluating the details of the ordeal. His posture may have been drooping, but his fists were clenched, the muscles of his shoulders were stiff, and the wince creasing his forehead was evidence of a nascent headache.

Disregarding the mess that covered his friend, Chouji pulled Shikamaru into a tight embrace. Shikamaru went nearly limp, releasing a shuddering sigh, but allowed himself scant seconds of comfort. When he began to stiffen again, Chouji released him and pulled back, squeezing his upper arms gently.

"Come on. Let's go." He received a slight nod in return. Worry pooled in his stomach as Shikamaru didn't even manage to muster even a blank expression, instead of the drained, inner-turmoil-wracked demeanor he bore.

Chouji slid one hand to the small of Shikamaru's back, and began guiding him home.

'Home' was Chouji's house. While Chouji spent enough time at Shikamaru's apartment for it to be perfectly comfortable, his family's house was equally familiar to them both, it had been since their childhood. It also had the benefits of a perpetually stocked kitchen, and a big traditional bath.

Shikamaru slumped onto a chair, hunching over the kitchen table while Chouji headed for the pantry. The house was silent, Chouji's parents having gone to bed hours ago. Chouji found a short note taped to the icebox: "We heard what happened. Take care of him. Soup is ready." He smiled slightly at his parents' astute assessment of events, and was glad of the preparation. He quietly turned on the stove, fetching bowls and chopsticks, and soon had the soup heated and served, the same old standby his father would make, years ago, when team ten returned from missions.

Shikamaru ate steadily, if mechanically. By the time Chouji had finished a much larger bowl, Shikamaru was drinking the last of his broth. He lowered the bowl to the table, eyes closed, browsknitting briefly in pain.

"Headache?" Chouji asked. He'd hoped it would have been eased with the food. Shikamaru nodded, lifting a hand to rub lightly at his temple. Chouji rose and stood behind Shikamaru. A few seals and a little concentration and chakra cooled his hands. Shikamaru arched into his touch like a cat, and Chouji smiled at the familiar reaction. Working out this particular tension was quick work as he soothed the stiff muscles and applied judicious pressure to a couple of pressure points. "Nnng… ahh…" Shikamaru rewarded his efforts with an entirely characteristic groan of relief.

Encouraged, Chouji jerked his head towards the bath room. "Clean up time." He said. Shikamaru's innate controlhad erodedenough, now, that physical sensation was enough to offer some comfort. But then, that was Chouji's usual way of doing things. Fighting off Shikamaru's runaway analytical processes using conversationhad always beenbeyond him anyway, and usually Shikamaru's lazy habits mitigated the stressful effects. Today's trauma was keeping his mind preoccupied, the enormity of what had happened trapping his focus. Shikamaru's sheer exhaustion, the same thing preventing him from distracting himself, would mean Chouji could do the distracting for him. And at this point, nothing Chouji could say—that Shikamaru was a skilled leader, that he was a good person, that his decisions were sound and smart and that his team and his friends trusted him and respected him and loved him—would do any good, no matter how clever or eloquent he was. Shikamaru _knew_ those things. But feeling and knowing were not the same. Rational extrapolation could be right every time, but when it came to visceral reaction, emotions held sway first, no matter what. And now Shikamaru was strung out from the discordant debate running through his mind, reliving the mission, needing nothing more than to shut it all off, and shut down.

Shikamaru stood at his gesture, and trailed behind him as they walked. Like Chouji, his footfalls were just audible on the wood floor, a sign of his trust towards the inhabitants of the house.

The tile floor before the bath was cold against bare feet. Chouji moved to turn on the hot water and begin filling the family-sized tub. No public bath by a long shot, but it could fit up to three grown people comfortably. The Akimichi family's single best luxury. Steam began to rise, warming the air.

Shikamaru stood, swaying slightly, just inside the closed door, as if at a loss. He wasn't—he'd bathed here more times than Chouji could count. Whatever it was Shikamaru felt just now, whatever he was automatically tearing himself apart over, he had gone outwardly passive, giving Chouji free rein to try and break through the mental static.

Chouji stood in front of Shikamaru, and undid the thin, strong rope that held the sword sheath to Shikamaru's back, placing the weapon in the nearest corner. Reaching for the mask that clung by a thread of chakra to Shikamaru's hip, he felt it come away at his touch, and he leaned it by the sword. One by one, he undid the buckles and clasps that secured the chest and back armor, the dried mud and blood flaking off as he worked. The arm-guards were next, followed by the sweat- and blood-stiffened sleeves and shirt. Calf bindings, shuriken holster, belt pouch, pants, all of it came off, until Shikamaru stood naked. The wounds incurred on the mission, ignored in favor of Naruto's ordeal, were now swaths of dark bruising and brown, scabbed cuts.

Shikamaru sat on a stool, and Chouji turned on the tap to fill a bucket as he stripped himself. The differences between their body shapes were so much more pronounced this way than when they were dressed. Shikamaru's lean, muscled body contrasted sharply with Chouji's soft-contoured, bulky build. Once, years ago, while he had been in the hospital himself, recovering from the failed mission to retrieve Sasuke, Chouji had asked what Shikamaru though of him now, if Shikamaru agreed with Ino about Chouji losing weight. It had been in jest, of course, Chouji could no more stop eating than breathing, his family's techniques required it. But Shikamaru had gone shades paler. He'd almost looked ill. "No." was all he'd replied, sharply, fervently, horrified. After that, Shikamaru had made a habit of circling Chouji's wrist with his fingers at least once a day. He'd finally looked satisfied when his middle finger and thumb no longer met.

Chouji ran the soaped cloth down Shikamaru's back, wiping away the grime of the day. He carefully cleaned the cuts, and untied the thong binding Shikamaru's ponytail, pouring warm water over his head, washing away the grit and sweat and bits of blood. Finally, he was clean, and Chouji prodded him towards the bath. Shikamaru sank into it, letting out a "Mmh," as his bigger wounds met hot water. He lay down below the surface, coming up for air every so often as Chouji washed.

He was staring up with his eyes open, Chouji saw when he stepped into the tub, watching from the ripples from below the surface. The next time he came up for a breath, Chouji said "Only clouds of steam in here. Sorry."

"It's fine." Shikamaru shook his head. He leaned back against the side of the tub, his tired face staring upward, eyes unfocused. "Being clean is nice." He said, and stretched, gingerly, under the water. The lines of tension under his skin loosened somewhat in the heat.

After the soak, Chouji rummaged through Shikamaru's belt pouch for his first aid supplies. The jar of analgesic disinfectant was two-thirds empty, but between that and the bandages there was plenty for his purposes.

They each tied a towel around their waist, and Shikamaru followed Chouji to his bedroom, perching on the edge of the bed.

Chouji smoothed the ointment over the cleaned cuts, red-seeping gashes in the skin of Shikamaru's legs and shoulders. The odd grunt was the only reaction to the sharp stinging the ointment inflicted. Shikamaru was too tired to be stoic.Chouji taped bandages over the wounds that were too wide or deep to leave open under clothing. Shikamaru kept his eyes closed for the duration, seeming to concentrate on the feel of fingers on his skin. He opened them again when Chouji smoothed down the last bandage. After a final check, he stepped over to his closet, finding what he needed on the shelf. Shikamaru was watching as he walked the short distance back, and accepted the shirt and pants he was offered as sleepwear, as well as a braided string to tie his hair back again.

"Thank you." Shikamaru sighed, as he pulled the shirt over his head. He stepped carefully into the loose sleeping pants, swaying until Chouji caught his elbow, and steadied him as he sank back onto the bed. He rolled onto his back, sliding his feet under the folded-back blanket, and lay there, eyes closed, for long minutes, as Chouji made a short circuit through the house, extinguishing lights and collecting Shikamaru's gear from the bath room. When he returned, Shikamaru was breathing unevenly, a slight grimace pulling Shikamaru's mouth, the slight clenching and reclenching of his jaw, the twitches of his brow… he was still 'on.'

At Chouji's footstep through the door, Shikamaru opened his eyes, the desperate fatigue pulling at his features almost painful to see.

"I'm so tired," he whispered "I need to stop…" he pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, "thinking… Just for a while… I'm tired…" he repeated, now pleading. He squeezed his eyes shut, and a breath like a sob broke from him. Both palms now pushed inward at his temples. "Stop… stop…" hisagonized whispers trailed off when Chouji's weight on the other side of the bed made the mattress squeak and sag as he stretched on his side.

"It's over." Chouji said, firmly. Shikamaru breathed another sob, and Chouji reached over to pull Shikamaru into his arms. "It's done." He insisted softly. Shikamaru curled into the embrace, tightening like a knot, shuddering, and Chouji held him, rubbed his back. "Just us, here. Shhh." He ran a hand over Shikamaru's head, cupping the base of his skull, rubbing the spots on his neck that made him relax, on a normal day. "Feel that." He urged. "Just that."

Arching under the pressure from Chouji's fingers, Shikamaru's breathing was rapid. He threw his head back, Chouji's wide palm flattening over the damp hair. Shikamaru's expression was one of fierce, desperate concentration now, and Chouji took the cue.

Gently pulling Shikamaru in closer, he let his breath rush over the exposed neck, and the hand that had been rubbing Shikamaru's back drifted lower, sliding up again under the fabric of his shirt. Shikamaru huffed once, a short exhale of encouragement, Chouji's hand continued its travels, fingers lightly moving over the bruises, gently stroking the unhurt areas. Gradually moving over ribs, flattening against Shikamaru's chest, then down over his stomach and then lower, while Shikamaru's breathing came deeper and faster. He was no longer concentrating, but finally, mercifully, lost in the sensation, awaiting what would come next.

And then Shikamaru was making familiar noises, gasping and moaning as Chouji stroked him slowly with one hand, pressing a saliva slicked finger into him with the other, finding the spot, touching him inside and out, and then Shikamaru clenched and clung and grunted once and then he melted, breaths heaving his chest, hands loosely curled against Chouji's arms. Drawing up just far enough to rest his head on the pillow, Shikamaru opened his eyes once, conveying wordless gratitude before rapidly sliding into sleep at last. Chouji withdrew his hands carefully, gathering the now-wet waist towel he'd slid between them. A few more seconds and he took care of himself, making more of a mess on the towel before he finally wiped his hands dry on one corner, and tossed the balled-up terry cloth in a neat arc into the laundry hamper.

He pulled Shikamaru's pants back up over his hips, and rearranged his own, before pulling the covers over them both. Sleep drifted tendrils into him. He resisted long enough to make sure of Shikamaru's long, even breathing, before he succumbed to slumber.

He woke to a sun-bright room, Shikamaru snoring lightly off to his left. The previous day's fatigue was absent from the relaxed face, and Chouji regarded the sprawled form fondly, then yawned hugely and carefully slid off the bed. Shikamaru had a few changes of clothing around here somewhere, he'd remember where when he woke up. For now, Chouji needed breakfast. As he shucked his night clothes and pulled on his usual clothing, green vest over the top, he looked out the window. The village was waking up. Naruto would be causing havoc at the hospital soon enough. Meanwhile, Shikamaru would sleep in as long as he possibly could. On his way past the bed to the door, Chouji leaned over and asked, "When are visiting hours?"

Shikamaru opened one eye, grudgingly, frowning at the disruption of his sleep, and found the wall clock over Chouji's shoulder. "Not for another two hours." He closed his eye firmly and Chouji rose with a silent laugh. Well, two hours was long enough for a decent breakfast.

-end-

Author's Note: For any who haven't yet run across this information, it's traditional in Japan to wash yourself before you get into the bath, to keep the bathwater clean. After all, who would want to soak in dirty water?


End file.
